Hardcastle's Frustration by Graham Ison Page B

Makepeace.’ It seemed an inappropriate name for a man in his employment. ‘My clerk tells me that you’re police officers,’ he said, peering at the two detectives over his half-moon spectacles.
    â€˜Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
    â€˜Please sit down and tell me how I can help you, gentlemen.’ Makepeace indicated a couple of uncomfortable chairs as he resumed his own seat.
    â€˜I’m investigating the murder of a man named Ronald Parker, Mr Makepeace,’ began Hardcastle, ‘and I understand that he recently appeared before a tribunal to assess his fitness for conscription.’
    Makepeace gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘There are hundreds of them going through the system on an almost daily basis, Inspector. Do you happen to have an address for Parker?’
    Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘Marriott?’
    â€˜Canbury Park Road, Kingston upon Thames,’ said Marriott, and furnished the full details of Parker’s employment. ‘And he was born on the twenty-third of July 1879.’
    â€˜One moment while I look him up.’ Makepeace crossed to one of several wooden filing cabinets and after a short search took out a Manila folder. ‘Here we are,’ he said, sitting down again. He adjusted his spectacles and studied the docket for a few moments before looking up. ‘What exactly did you want to know, Inspector?’
    â€˜Whether the tribunal found that he was eligible for military service, Mr Makepeace.’
    â€˜Definitely not. He was examined by a medical board for the second time on the fifteenth of February this year and declared to be unfit. He was sent a letter notifying him of that result on Monday the eighteenth.’ Makepeace closed the docket. ‘But you say he’s been murdered.’
    â€˜Yes, his body was recovered from the river on Monday last.’
    â€˜I’m afraid we’ll need to have a death certificate to keep our records straight, Inspector.’ Makepeace picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell and looked expectantly at Hardcastle.
    â€˜I dare say,’ said Hardcastle, not wishing to become involved in the administrative niceties of the civil service. ‘I suggest you communicate with the coroner at Horseferry Road coroner’s court. He’ll doubtless be able to assist you, once he’s reached a verdict, that is.’
    â€˜It’s all very irregular,’ muttered Makepeace, as he put down his pen and closed the file.
    â€˜Yes, it must be,’ said Hardcastle, rising from his seat. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Makepeace.’
    The policeman saluted again as Hardcastle and Marriott left the building, but the DDI ignored him.
    â€˜There’s definitely something funny going on here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once they were back at the police station.
    â€˜It looks as though he never got the letter, sir, otherwise he wouldn’t have set off for Holland.’
    â€˜If he ever did, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Frankly, I don’t think he travelled any further than the distance between Kingston and where he was chucked in the river. And remind me to speak to the sub at Vine Street about that PC on the fixed point in St James’s Square. The man should be put on the report.’
    Detective Constable Fred Wilmot took the Underground train for the tortuous journey from Westminster to Dagenham Heathway. He was tempted to take a cab to Dagenham Dock, but feared that Hardcastle would disallow the cost as an unnecessary expense. Consequently, he walked the two miles to the dock gates.
    â€˜Where can I find the dock-master, mate?’ he asked a passing stevedore.
    â€˜Should be in his office over there, guv’nor.’ The docker pointed to a low grey building.
    â€˜What’s his name?’
    â€˜Lynch, Pat Lynch, but everyone calls him Paddy.